


Anamnesis: Extras

by pipermca



Series: Black on White on Black [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Fluff and Angst, IDW-based AU, M/M, Post-War, Pot luck, Racing, Surprise Party, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-12 06:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11730966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipermca/pseuds/pipermca
Summary: This contains all of the bits and bobs that didn't make it into Anamnesis, for various reasons.





	1. Second Chances

**Author's Note:**

> _SPOILERS AHEAD_ if you have not yet read [Anamnesis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11554080/chapters/25949106). 
> 
> This first story takes place at some point after [Chapter 11](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11554080/chapters/26156067).

Half Track felt unhappy. And worn out. And old. And tired. But mostly unhappy. 

Ever since the end of the war, he’d bounced from job to job. There wasn’t much call for an anti-aircraft tank in a world that wasn’t at war, especially an ex-Decepticon tank. The civil defence corps didn’t want him, although he’d applied on several occasions. The cops didn’t need him. And no one off-world was hiring. So, he took what jobs he could find and did them the best that he could.

The current job, like most of his previous ones, was basically hard labour. Lift that. Move this over there. Dig a hole here. Fill a hole there. At the end of each day, his joints and servos ached, and his fuel levels were low. The worst thing was that he couldn’t build any enthusiasm for the work he was doing, which made his days seem even longer than they actually were. 

Not like during the war. Shooting Autobots out of the sky – that was fun and interesting and exciting and Half Track loved doing it, even if his partner had… Whatever. That wasn’t important anymore. But now, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d fired his cannons. His day was all stone blocks and girders and heaving and pushing and Primus was it ever boring. Tonight, when his shift was over, he would go back to the flat he shared with three other mechs and refuel and try to recharge and then come back and do it again tomorrow.

This was no way to live.

His yellow visor was cast down at the ground as he left the work site, so he did not immediately notice the two mechs sitting by the entrance of the warehouse until one of them called out his designation.

Looking up, he immediately saw the Praxian. Prowl was the mech’s designation; he remembered him from the news vids. He’d been an Autobot and after the war was involved in something political and got into trouble for something that Half Track couldn’t follow. Something about Lord Starscream? It didn’t matter. 

But Prowl was hanging back, and it was the other mech walking towards him who had called to him. The mech looked familiar, but Half Track couldn’t place him. He was a white Polyhexian racer, with blue and red stripes and a blue visor. “Half Track,” the mech called again as he got closer.

Half Track stopped. “Yeah?” he asked warily. A few deca-cycles ago another mech had tried to draw him into a conversation that seemed friendly at first but then the mech kept asking him for money and wouldn’t leave him alone even after Half Track explained that he didn’t have any spare shanix, that he wasn’t even sure if he could make his rent this orbital cycle and that was just a mess trying to lose the mech.

The other mech approached him and said, “Hi there. Got a klik?” When Half Track nodded, the mech continued. “My designation’s Jazz. I want to talk to you about Meltdown.”

Meltdown. That slagged piece of scrap. With a grunt and a wave of his hand, Half Track began walking away again. “You remediation mechs have already been to see me,” he said, not bothering to look behind him as Jazz hurried to keep up with him. “I’ve got nothing to do with him now. And you mechs don’t seem to understand… We weren’t a real gestalt, we just worked together. It wasn’t like what everyone thought. And he was such a – “

Jazz caught up with Half Track and interrupted his rant. “No, no, I’m not with the remediation ministry,” he said, falling into step beside the blue and red gunner. “I’ve got a message from Meltdown, and I promised him I’d deliver it to you.”

At that, Half Track stopped sharply, catching Jazz off guard again. “A message from Meltdown?” he asked, anger seeping into his voice and field. “They said he didn’t remember anything. They said he was little better than a sparkling. He doesn’t remember the war, or me, or what he –“ Half Track stopped, forcing the memories back down again. “How could you possibly have a message from him for me?”

Jazz held up a hand as if to stop Half Track from walking away again. “It’s a long story, but… I was with him when he went into stasis lock. Before he did, I promised that I’d give you a message.” Jazz held out a data slug. “It’s a fragment of a memory – one of my memories – but I’m giving it to you so you can see it’s actually from Meltdown.” When Half Track just stared at the slug, Jazz pushed it slightly closer to him. “Watch it or not – it’s your choice – but I promised that I’d pass on his message.”

Half Track hesitated and then took the data slug. “We didn’t part on good terms,” Half Track said.

“I... I’ve learned that when you get a second chance at something, you should take it,” Jazz said, glancing back at Prowl. Jazz held out his hand, and after a moment Half Track gripped his forearm in return. “Not everyone gets second chances.”

***

The energon was unfiltered and nasty, but it was the best that Half Track could afford right now. At least none of his roommates had gotten into his stuff… Some of the others couldn’t even afford liquid energon and bought pellets instead. Now those were nasty.

He sat on the edge of his recharging berth, sipping his energon and glaring at the data slug in his hand. 

Meltdown. When they came to tell him that they’d found his frame, and that his spark was still active, Half Track’s first thought was “Primus be damned, I thought I was rid of him for good.” But then they said that he wouldn’t remember anything, he felt a stab of sadness. Why? After all that Meltdown had put him through, all of the slag and craziness and trouble that the mech had gotten both of them into, Half Track was happy to never have to speak to Meltdown again, and that’s what he told the mechs from the medical centre who’d come to see him. 

Half Track felt the old anger swelling in him again, and he chugged down the rest of his energon to try to calm himself. So the mech didn’t remember anything, which meant he wouldn’t remember Half Track and wouldn’t remember what he did. What did it matter? Meltdown was some other mech’s problem now. 

He held the data slug up to his visor for a long moment before plugging it into his wrist reader. 

_Meltdown sat in a pile of rubble, looking up at him. He was covered in dust, and looked miserable._

_Another mech said, “If you don’t want to donate your energon to save us… or yourself… that’s your decision.”_

_Meltdown was holding an energon hose, and he played with it for a minute before opening his chest port and plugging it in. “What the slag, why not. If I don’t, I’m dead. If I do, I might still be dead. But if... if I deactivate, and one of you does get outta here, promise me… Get word to Half Track that… Tell him... Tell him I’m sorry. For everything.”_

_“Thanks, mech,” the other mech said, plugging the other end of the hose into the chest port of a mech who was lying on the ground. “You’re helpin’ save all our frames here.”_

The clip ended.

Half Track stared at the wall opposite his berth.

_Get word to Half Track that… Tell him... Tell him I’m sorry. For everything._

That slagger. That scrap-eating afthead. That miserable excuse for a drone.

“You couldn’t tell me that to my face?” Half Track muttered.

“Tell you what to your face?” Fireshot asked, looking up from the vid he was watching on his berth.

“Nothing,” Half Track said, lying down and turning over to face the wall. 

He was so tired, but recharge was a long time coming. 

_Tell him I’m sorry. For everything._

***

“It’s so good that you decided to come down to see him,” Comeback said, escorting Half Track along a corridor of the medical centre. “So often, mechs like Meltdown are just... left here. No one visits,” he added sadly.

“Well, I figured I should at least see how he’s doing,” Half Track said, then frowned. “I’m not... You don’t expect me to just start taking care of him, right? I can hardly keep myself in energon, let along another mech who can’t remember how to do anything.”

Comeback waved his hand reassuringly. “No, no, there’s no obligation. The records show that you were a combiner team –“

“Not really. I mean, we combined but it wasn’t a gestalt or anything like that... We just worked together.” Frag, Half Track hated explaining this every time it came up. Everyone heard “they combined” and assumed they were like Superion or Devestator, when really Meltdown was just his wheels when they needed to get someplace fast. And thank Primus for that – Half Track never had any desire to see inside Meltdown’s mind. It was probably like stepping inside a hive of scraplets. 

“Still, no obligation. It’s just good that these patients see someone other than the medical centre staff. There are entertainers that sometimes visit, but beyond that all they see are the medics... And we’re always busy. It can get lonely for them. Ah, here we are. Meltdown, there’s someone here to see you.”

They entered an area that looked like a rec room, but all of the mechs were in hover chairs, and most were staring at a vid screen on the wall. 

Upon hearing his designation, Meltdown looked around and saw Comeback standing next to Half Track. “Hi, Comeback!” he said happily. 

Comeback led Half Track over to where Meltdown was sitting in his hover chair. “Meltdown, this is Half Track,” he said, offering a chair to the other mech. “He used to know you. He’s going to visit for a little while, if that’s ok with you.”

“Sure!” Meltdown said brightly.

Half Track stared at the purple and blue mech for a moment before looking back up at Comeback. “Uh – he’s...”

Comeback patted Half Track’s arm. “He’s happy to see you,” he said. Turning to leave, he added, “I’ll be back to check on you in half a groon.”

Half Track sank into the chair next to Meltdown and stared at his old partner. The mech still had a wide smile on his face. This was so... weird. Meltdown never smiled. Meltdown never said hello. Meltdown had always grunted and snarled when he spoke. Meltdown had glared. This was...

“You used to know me?” Meltdown chirped. “Did I know you?”

Automatically, Half Track nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, you did know me. We were partners.”

“Partners!” Meltdown clapped his hands. “I had a partner!”

A smile threatened to cross Half Track’s lips. “Yeah, we were partners. Good ones, too. We made a really great team.”

“Wow!” Meltdown crowed. “Do you think we can be partners again?”

Half Track paused. 

_Not everyone gets second chances._

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe we will. Someday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a couple of people ask about Meltdown, and I did write a little piece for him. However, his story just didn't fit in with the overall plot, so I ended up cutting it out. However, I expanded on it for this short to give him a little bit of closure. :)


	2. Music Therapy - Prowl's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is [Chapter 9 of Anamnesis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11554080/chapters/26106081), so spoilers if you have not yet read that! It's exactly the same chapter, except told from Prowl's point of view. It contains stuff that was going on inside his head that Jazz couldn't see. See the end notes for a longer explanation. :)

Prowl happily accepted the invitation to Jazz’s flat for an evening of music. The thought of hearing Jazz play again after so much time was irresistible. Of course, he could have replayed countless memories of Jazz playing for him and others, but hearing it live was always better.

Jazz was noticeably nervous, rearranging the treats repeatedly until Prowl practically ordered him to sit down. The racer laughed at himself and took a seat across from Prowl. “Thanks for comin’ over to listen to me play, Prowl. Blaster said he reserved a performance slot for me in a deca-cycle, and… I don’t wanna embarrass myself, ya know?”

If Jazz played even half as well as he used to, Prowl did not think that Jazz had anything to worry about. But Prowl inclined his helm and replied, “I promise to give you an honest assessment of your playing.”

Drumming his fingers on the table, Jazz stared at Prowl fixedly for a moment. “Prowl... There’s somethin’ else I wanted to ask you about.” Raising his door wings to indicate that he was listening, Prowl indicated for Jazz to continue. “When Ratchet brought up Callosum, you –“

Callosum. The mnemosurgeon. Prowl instinctively pulled his field in tight and gritted his dentae, fighting the churn in his tanks. He flinched when Jazz spoke again. “Yeah, see? You’re doin’ it again. Do you not like him or something? He seemed like an all right mech to me,” Jazz said, his field shot through with concern.

Pulling a full vent cycle, Prowl steadied himself and reminded himself that all the things that had happened to him had occurred after Jazz’s accident, after the war... After Prowl almost lost himself. And Jazz deserved an explanation, especially since he needed to put so much (ugh) trust in the mnemosurgeon. “I must apologize for my reaction,” Prowl began. “Callosum was highly recommended by Ratchet, and I yield to his expertise. However, I have had…” He paused and looked away from Jazz. “I have had personal experience with mnemosurgeons that has left me with a poor impression of their profession.” 

Prowl hoped that was enough for Jazz, but the racer pressed. “You needed a mnemosurgeon? Were you –“

“No!” Prowl snapped, before trying to calm himself again when he saw Jazz wince. “No. I did not need a mnemosurgeon.” He took another full vent cycle, resigned to telling the whole story... Or most of it, anyway. “After the war, during the unrest and before Starscream took control of the Council, I found myself disagreeing with… the will of the people.” The will of the people. The people who did not know what Starscream had done, or did not care, or did not understand the atrocities Starscream had helped commit. But then again... Prowl remember the things he did during the war, too. Prowl continued, choosing his words carefully. “As I attempted to steer Cybertron’s destiny towards one that I thought would benefit its citizens better than the one they chose for themselves, I became… unpopular with a variety of people.”

“Ratchet said you objected to Starscream becoming ruler,” Jazz said.

What a perfect term, Prowl thought. Out loud, he said, “Yes. ‘Objected.’ That is an excellent word to use. I **strongly** objected.” He leaned back in his chair gathering himself again. This was not what he had anticipated when he accepted Jazz’s invitation, but... It was best that Jazz understood. “After all that we had fought for, I was appalled that the citizens would just hand control to that… To Starscream. As a result of my ‘objection,’ I found myself attacked on a variety of fronts. This included shadowplay, brainwashing, and mind control.”

“What?!”

“As several of these dealings came at the digit tips of mnemosurgeons and their ilk, I developed an extreme distrust of the profession.” Prowl smiled, but he knew that it didn’t reach his optics. “And while I understand that the mnemosurgeons practicing today have developed a rigorous code of ethics, I still have difficulty in trusting them.”

Jazz stared gape-mouthed at Prowl for a full klik before responding. “That’s… Wow. Totally understandable, not trusting them. But…” The racer shook his helm as if debating something internally. “I mean, Callosum doesn’t seem the type to pull that kind of stuff. In fact, he outright refused to do anything until I’d had a chance to try to sort some things out on my own.”

Words and promises from a butcher, Prowl thought. But the image of Jazz lying in the square, trembling and screaming, came unbidden to his mind. He exvented. “If this… If Callosum can help you overcome these attacks that you have had, I can only support him,” Prowl said, keeping his field neutral and close.

There was a long silence. Prowl was half expecting Jazz to ask more questions, but instead the racer slapped his hands to his knees and asked, ““So, did you want to listen to the beginning of the set I’ve cobbled together?” 

Relieved at leaving the uncomfortable subject behind, Prowl nodded. “I would be delighted. Would you like me to sit here or on the couch?” 

“Wherever you’d be more comfortable.” Jazz rose and picked up his instrument, strumming a few notes. Prowl opted to sit on the couch so that he would be directly across from where Jazz was playing in front of the curtained window. Once Prowl was settled, energon cube in hand, Jazz said, “So, once I started noodling around on this thing I realized that there were a lot of songs that I remembered. Or rather, my digits remembered how to play them, and I just went along for the ride.”

And then Jazz began to play.

Prowl’s spark hurt from the first notes. He understood why Jazz would remember familiar songs that he used to play – motor memory was a powerful thing – but why did he need to remember this song? Why **this** song in particular?

_“I’ve got a song I wanna play for you, Prowler,” Jazz said, twirling the instrument in his digits._

_Prowl, sitting on the couch in Jazz’s quarters, smiled and fanned his door wings wide. “I am all audials, Jazz.”_

_“Good,” Jazz said, a shy smile on his lips. For a moment, Prowl wondered at Jazz being shy before Jazz added, “Because I wrote this one for you.”_

_Sitting up straighter, Prowl widened his optics in surprise. “You... wrote a song for me?”_

_Jazz ducked his helm and strummed random chords. “I couldn’t get you outta my helm. All I could think about was your optics, and your smile, and the way you twitch your wings at me when I know you’re trying not to laugh at one of my jokes... So I put it all to music.” He raised his helm and his visor glowed as he focused on Prowl. “This one’s just for you, Prowler.”_

_And then Jazz began to play._

Jazz had played this song countless times for Prowl in the vorns they’d been together. He played it for others, too, in the rec hall during parties or celebrations, but as far as Prowl knew Jazz never explained to anyone else what the song was or who he’d written the song for. In fact, Prowl was certain that Jazz had taken that bit of information to his... resting place.

The melody and harmony and rhythm were all ingrained in Prowl’s memory. After Jazz had disappeared, Prowl had spent groons listening over and over to a recording that Jazz had made of this song. Alone in his own quarters, Prowl had tried to relive the feelings it had given him when he’d first heard Jazz play it live. There, that first time in Jazz’s quarters, Prowl had been transfixed, feeling the harmonics wash over his sensors and seeing Jazz swaying slightly, emphasizing the dangerous beat that ran like an undercurrent through the song.

Much like now.

Prowl sent more power to his sensory net, trying to pull in every nuance. His spark thrummed, anticipating each twist in the familiar tune, and it soared during the quicksilver arpeggio that always conjured up images of Jazz in motion, running, vaulting, transforming, racing, and being chased by a black and white Praxian ex-Enforcer.

Suddenly, the melody faltered, then the music stopped completely. Jarred from his recollections, Prowl focused on Jazz. 

The Polyhexian was staring at Prowl, slack-jawed. His electro-bass was balanced between his digits, and his visor flickered faintly as he slumped against his instrument.

Prowl’s spark lurched. Was Jazz having another panic attack? Was something else wrong? “Jazz?” Prowl tensed, ready to spring forward. “Jazz! Are you all right?”

Jazz’s voice was full of static. “Prowler...”

Prowl had already begun to comm the medical centre, certain that something was terribly wrong. “Yes?” he replied, hoping to keep Jazz talking until help could arrive.

“I... called you Prowler.”

Prowler. A nickname once used in jest, then in affection, then in love. A nickname that he’d never imagined to hear again.

Prowl managed to cancel the hail to the medical centre, but did not notice that he had dropped his energon cube. He cycled his optics, and when he onlined them again Jazz was standing before him, cupping his hands around Prowl’s face.

With wonder in his tone, Jazz said, “I remember. Us. Not... I don’t remember everything. I don’t remember specific events or conversations or – Pit, much of any of whatever we’ve done together. But I remember us.” He trailed his thumbs down Prowl’s face. “I remember how I felt about you. And I can still feel it, Prowl. Prowler.”

Prowler. Prowler! He remembered! The Praxian let all of his joy and astonishment seep into his field as he tilted his helm into one of Jazz’s hands. “Yes. You called me Prowler.” Prowl moved his cheek against Jazz’s hand, encouraging the caress. “Oh, Primus... I did not realize just how much I missed that ridiculous nickname.” The digits on Jazz’s other hand traced up the side of Prowl’s helm and across his brow. A stroke up the side of Prowl’s chevron sent a jolt of charge through his frame, and Prowl shuddered “Oh, Jazz.”

An eager shyness crept into Jazz’s field. Prowl watched him lean forward and say, “Can I...?”

Prowl didn’t even know what Jazz wanted, and he didn’t care. All that mattered in this moment was that Jazz remembered. He remembered! Whatever Jazz wanted, Prowl was happy to provide. “Yes!” he exclaimed.

Jazz’s field was chaotic, but he settled to the couch next to Prowl. The opaque blue visor gave away nothing of Jazz’s expression, but his lips parted slightly as the racer leaned in towards Prowl. With all of the hesitation of a new lover, Jazz’s lips skimmed over Prowl’s, barely touching. He pulled back and ran a digit across Prowl’s lips, whispering, “Prowler.” Prowl suppressed a whimper as Jazz leaned in once more to kiss him more confidently. 

Finally. Finally. Prowl felt the pain of vorns alone evaporate as he ran his hands up Jazz’s armor while Jazz’s roamed his frame. Jazz slid a digit against the hinges of his door wings, and Prowl could no longer keep silent. A low moan escaped his vocalizer, and he grabbed onto Jazz’s frame harder, scraping his digits across Jazz’s headlights. 

Jazz shuddered. Laughing, Jazz gasped, “Ah! You’d think that we were both comin’ off a twelve-hundred vorn dry spell.” Prowl focused on Jazz’s visor as the other mech leaned his helm against Prowl’s. “Are ya?”

Prowl could have laughed at the idea, had the reality not been so stark and lonely. “There was never anyone else, Jazz.” He pressed his lips to Jazz’s again for a long moment before nibbling his way up the edge of his helm to a sensor horn. Wondering if Jazz’s frame would respond the way he expected it, he swirled his glossa around the base before running it up to the tip. 

He was rewarded with a gasp and a tremor from Jazz. “Ah! Prowler... Tell me if you wanna.... Or if you don’t wanna... ‘Cuz I sure do –“ Jazz’s vocalizer faded to static as Prowl’s digits found another spot under Jazz’s front bumper that he remembered.

Of course, his field cried. Of course. “Yes,” he said, the words seemingly falling from his vocalizer of their own accord. He ran his hand down Jazz’s helm. “Interface with me. Please. Jazz.”

In response, Jazz nodded and lapped at Prowl’s thumb, pulling it into his mouth. Jazz’s dentae pressed into the metal of the digit, and he drew his hands across the back of Prowl’s door wings. 

Jerking at the current that ran through him at the touch, Prowl growled and grabbed at Jazz’s shoulders, pressing him down flat on the couch. Jazz clung to him on the way down, pulling his face close for another enthusiastic kiss.

Before Prowl could lose himself completely in that kiss, he heard Jazz laugh and his field shifted, becoming tinged with nervousness. “So, I’ve been told... That is, mechs who knew me before said...” Prowl waited patiently as Jazz laughed again. “They said that I was known for being a bit of an interface ace, ya know? Except... I don’t remember any of that.”

Suddenly, Prowl felt unsure at what Jazz was saying. Could Jazz, who had opened his optics to how interfacing could be so much more than just an exchange of charge between two mechs, not remember any of that? “None of it?” he asked. 

Jazz trailed clever digits up to Prowl’s shoulders, seeking seams and crevices that pulled gasps and shivers from the Praxian’s frame. “Well, I remember the basics, of course. And I remember flashes, here and there. But if you were hoping for, ya know, anything freaky...”

Prowl’s memory immediately supplied a list of “freaky” things that Jazz had taught him over the vorns, and his core temperature climbed slightly at the mere memory of some of those details. He smiled and kissed Jazz to suppress his own laugh. “I see,” he said. “No, Jazz, I am not looking for ‘anything freaky.’ Not tonight, that is. Just having you here is enough for me.” Prowl tapped his forehelm gently against Jazz’s before adding with a smirk, “However, I shall keep that in mind in the future. After all, I still remember everything that you showed me. Now I have the opportunity to return the favour.”

Jazz laughed and slid a hand down the side of Prowl’s helm. “Looking forward to it,” he rumbled.

Leaning forward into another kiss, Prowl sought the gaps in Jazz’s side, drawing sparks from his chassis. When Jazz arched against him, Prowl licked his way down Jazz’s collar, stopping when Jazz did the same to Prowl’s chevron. As Prowl twitched away from the sudden sensation, Jazz drew his digits across the upper edge of the sensitive door wings.

“Jazz,” Prowl groaned, groping down Jazz’s side to the hip port that was already open. Prowl pressed his helm against Jazz’s, desperation for this connection wiping any semblance of rational thoughts from his processor. Drawing out his own cable, Prowl unceremoniously jammed his plug into Jazz’s socket and sent across a burst of data to complete the connection. Prowl felt Jazz’s firewalls fall, and he unleashed a surge of energy directly into Jazz’s processor.

Jazz froze at the brief torrent before recovering enough to pull out his own cable and slot it into place at Prowl’s hip. Prowl lowered his own firewalls, and his processor and spark sang at the deep, full connection between the two.

It had been so long, so long since Prowl had felt the power and cleverness and joy that danced in Jazz. [[Jazz, I missed you – I missed this – so much.]] Prowl sent another burst of pure sensory data, and Jazz shuddered beneath him. So lovely.

[[I know you did.]] Jazz nibbled his way up the edge of the Praxian’s chevron, and Prowl quivered at the sensation that then fed back into Jazz. [[If I could go back, change things, so that you weren’t hurt, I’d do it in an instant.]] Jazz dragged the tips of his digits from the back of Prowl’s wings to the front, trailing them again along the sensitive leading edge. Prowl whined as the sensation tore through him and back into Jazz. “Slag, how could I have forgotten this?” Jazz murmured.

A touch here, a stroke there, a nibble, a kiss, a nuzzle, a hum, it all ran from one to the other and back in a loop that sent their charges higher. Prowl stroked against a door wing and Jazz sloppily dragged dentae along a sensor horn or – was it the other way around? No matter, they both felt it in the giving and receiving as sparks cracked between them both.

Finally, Jazz clung to Prowl, his helm lolling back, neck cables exposed. He whimpered, “Prowl... I can’t...”

With the last bit of coherency he could muster, Prowl held Jazz tight and nuzzled his helm. [[Let go, Jazz. Overload for me. Let me see it again.]]

Sobbing, Jazz opened his mouth wide as his visor became brighter and brighter, finally blazing white. Prowl resisted the feedback for a moment more, watching in elation until the crackling charge swelled to overtake him as well.

Prowl rebooted first, his optics still locked onto Jazz’s dark visor. He watched until the visor flickered and glimmered back to life, and Jazz shifted slightly to focus on Prowl.

It didn’t seem real, having Jazz with him like this again. The connection with Jazz felt so familiar, it was almost as if they hadn’t been apart at all. [[My Jazz.]] Prowl drew a thumb gently across the bottom of Jazz’s visor and down his cheek.

Nuzzling his lips into Prowl’s palm, Jazz radiated a sense of contentment. [[My Prowler.]]

[[You came back to me. Finally.]] Yes, almost as if they hadn’t been apart.... except Prowl could keenly remember vorns of emptiness. Staring at the ceiling in his quarters. Thinking of things he would want to tell Jazz except... he was gone. Endless self-recrimination at how things could have been done different. 

Jazz frowned, and Prowl suddenly realized he was transmitting the memory of his loneliness and guilt across the hardline. Before he could withdraw, he felt a surge of emotion coming from Jazz, a wave of [[ _love/acceptance/forgiveness/adoration_ ]]. 

[[I’m as back as I can be.]] Jazz drew lazy circles on one of Prowl’s door wings with a single digit. [[And as for what I’m missin’... Just think, you can tell me all yer bad jokes again.]]

Unable to stop himself, still dizzy with the delight that his Jazz was back with him, Prowl laughed out loud. He grinned and kissed Jazz firmly on the visor. [[I shall have to think of some, then.]]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was writing this chapter, in my head I always pictured it from Prowl's point of view. It made sense to me, and I tried to write it from Prowl's POV several times...
> 
> Except that every single time I started it from Prowl's POV, Jazz jumped in front and said "No, no, I'm gonna tell this part!"
> 
> "Jazz, down in front. This is Prowl's chapter," I said, and pushed him aside to start again. Things would go well for a few paragraphs until suddenly Jazz had the camera once more and the story was coming from his viewpoint. So I'd have to start **again**. "Jazz," I explained firmly. "You've got plenty of chapters, and I want this one to be Prowl's!"
> 
> For his part, Prowl just shrugged. He seemed happy to let Jazz tell how Chapter 9 went.
> 
> Throwing up my hands, I gave in and let Jazz tell it... Err, and he was right. It **did** work better his way. So that's the version that made it into the story. :) But just to make my muse happy, this bit is how I originally imagined that chapter being told.


	3. Scenes from a Surprise Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl and Jazz's friends throw a surprise party to celebrate their union.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place after the end of Anamnesis, so spoilers if you have not yet read that!
> 
> This was supposed to just be some fluffy fun, except I accidentally some plot and character/relationship development.

The racetrack that Smokescreen owned was situated just outside of the city limits, well away from any residential towers. Prowl had suggested to Jazz privately that while limiting noise complaints was the official reason for the racetrack’s location, he suspected that grey-market gambling was the more likely explanation. 

“You’re not gonna give Smokey grief about that while we’re there, are you?” Jazz had asked plaintively when they received the request for assistance with some “business matters” from Smokescreen.

Prowl had frowned and gave a non-committal wave of his door wings. “It depends on what he wants assistance with,” Prowl finally replied. “I definitely do not want to be involved in anything illegal. A full vorn spent in the accused’s seat in a courtroom was enough for me.”

Jazz relayed that to Smokescreen, who assured them both that there was nothing illegal about his operation – any of it! – but that he still needed their assistance on this particular cycle. Both of them.

Prowl and Jazz drove through the outskirts of Iacon City, wending their way through tunnels and over bridges. ::I am still unclear why Smokescreen requested both of us to help him.:: Prowl’s tone over the comm line was even, but Jazz knew that the Praxian was still analyzing every glyph of the invitation they had received. ::Surely one or the other of us would have been sufficient.::

::Oh no. We’re bein’ forced to spend some time together helping a friend. How awful!:: Jazz tagged the message with a glyph for a wink.

Prowl simply sent back a single glyph: Point taken.

Oddly, Smokescreen was waiting for them outside the gates of the racetrack. Both Jazz and Prowl transformed and walked the few steps to meet Smokescreen. Tilting his wings in greeting, Smokescreen gripped both of their forearms in turn. “Glad to see you both. And right on time!”

“That was Prowl’s doing,” Jazz said as they walked through the gates.

“Of course it was,” Smokescreen replied with a smile.

“So what assistance is it you require?” Prowl asked, his wings tipped forward slightly. 

“Yeah, Prowl’s been strippin’ his gears trying to figure out what you’d need both of us for,” Jazz added, nudging Prowl with an elbow. 

“To be perfectly honest, I’m surprised that Prowl hasn’t figured it out,” Smokescreen said as they entered the main spectator area. “But since he hasn’t –“ He made a wide gesture with an arm and wing as they rounded the corner into the concourse.

“SURPRISE!”

A good dozen mechs were gathered in the concourse, and all of them shouted when they rounded the corner. 

Jazz froze, cancelling his battle protocols, before his faceplates broke into a huge grin. “What on Cybertron?” he laughed, turning to Prowl. Prowl had also frozen in place, but had not yet recovered. His optics were wide and his wings were hitched down against his back protectively. “Hey. Prowl. Didya crash or are you still with us?”

“I am here.” Prowl’s optics refocused on Jazz, and his wings slowly rose back to a neutral position. “However, I do not understand what this is.”

“This, my mech, is a surprise party to celebrate your union,” said Smokescreen, gesturing for the two lovers to enter the circle of their friends. “We’ve got all evening. Blaster’s here to get some tunes going, we’ve got treats and some high-grade, and of course there’s the track in case anyone wants to spin their wheels a bit.”

***

“I think that the new couple should have the honour of first race,” Orion Pax said, his sonorous tone cutting through the chatter effectively.

This brought a cheer from the mechs gathered, and Jazz and Prowl found themselves being pushed towards the track. 

“Come on, mechs, show us your stuff,” Jetfire called from the stands. 

“And then later, we’ll get a chance to show you up,” added Sunstreaker.

Jazz and Prowl, relenting, walked onto the track. Jazz glanced at Prowl and grinned. “This ain’t fair. I’m gonna beat you easily.”

Prowl narrowed his optics, then transformed and revved his engine dangerously. ::I do not believe that is a foregone conclusion. But if you like, I can give you a head start.::

Jazz laughed before activating his own transformation sequence. ::Not necessary, my mech.:: 

Smokescreen waited until the two cars were even with each other at the start line. “All right,” he said. “Three laps. I’ll ring the bell on the last one. Ready?” He waited for a confirmation from both, and then hit the start signal. It counted down until...

“And they’re off!” Blaster boomed into the stadium.

Jazz pealed out with a squeal, fishtailing slightly as his tires sought purchase on the pavement. He poured as much energy as he could into his acceleration, attempting to pull as far ahead of Prowl as possible. He took the first turn a bit too fast, but managed to drift around the corner and open it up again on the straightaway.

…except that Prowl was right behind him. The Praxian had slowed on the corner, not being as agile as Jazz, but his larger pursuit engine was more than making up for the difference on the longer straightaways.

Around another turn, into straight portion, and into a third turn, Jazz would pull away on the turns, tires screaming and smoking, but Prowl would catch up on the straightaways, his engine growling.

::Slag, mech! Are you even coming close to redlining?::

Prowl nudged his front bumper even with Jazz’s rear bumper before they entered another turn and he had to fall back slightly. ::No. Perhaps you should have taken the offer of a head start?::

In response, Jazz tore around the next corner, trying to build any kind of distance between him and his new conjunx.

It was when he heard the bell for the last lap that Jazz realized he might lose. Knowing that he would probably get an audial-full from Ratchet when they got back to the stands, he decided to use what sprinting power he had left to prevent Prowl from pulling ahead.

But it wasn’t enough. Inexorably, Prowl drew even with Jazz. In the final stretch of the race, Jazz had nothing left, and Prowl pulled ahead to finish a complete length ahead of Jazz.

“Prowl wins, by a full length!” came Blaster’s call from the stands.

They both slowed, and Prowl hung back waiting for Jazz to pull even with him again before they both transformed back into root mode. Jazz leaned forward with his hands on his knees, his fans running at their top speed in an attempt to bleed off some of the heat from his engine.

“Good race,” Prowl said, laying a hand on Jazz’s shoulder. “If we’d only gone two laps you would have won.”

Jazz was slightly chagrined when he realized that Prowl’s fans were hardly even ticking faster than normal. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” he puffed, then stood and wrapped the Praxian in his arms, pulling him in for a kiss.

***

“Try the green ones. I found an energon artist that made the same copper-infused bites that I used to love when I lived in the Towers,” Mirage said.

Jazz took one of the offered treats and popped it in his mouth. “Mmm! Prowl, try this one – it’s got a really nice metallic tang.”

Jetfire pointed at some other plates arranged on the table. “The candied pellets are from Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, and I think Hound brought the red squares.”

“He was up all night making them! I told him that every time he makes them he gets tons of compliments, so they were perfect to bring to this party. They’re bitter with bits of acid, really refreshing after any of the sweet ones,” Bluestreak said, leaning against the green mech’s leg. 

“Aww, they’re just an old recipe I know,” Hound said, patting Bluestreak’s helm. “They’re nothing special.”

“Nothing special?” Bluestreak smiled up at Hound, his door wings fluttering. “Well, even if it’s an old recipe, it’s still amazing! Hound is a great mixologist, although he doesn’t like to talk about it. If you ever get a chance, get him to make you one of his high-grade mixer shots. The first time I had one I thought I was going to burn out my taste receptors, but the burn fades pretty quick into a really nice flavour.” 

“Did everyone bring something?” Prowl asked, his optics skating around the table as he took in the large array of things to sample.

“The humans called it a ‘pot luck,’ where every participant is asked to bring an item to share,” Orion Pax said. He pointed at a jug of glowing pink liquid. “My contribution is filtered engex from Catillia.”

Balancing a pile of treats on a plate, Jazz wandered over to where Ratchet was chatting with Wheeljack. “So what did you mechs bring? I want to make sure I try something from everyone.”

Pointing at a brown lump on Jazz’s plate, Wheeljack said, “That’s from me. It’s… uh…. Hot. Really hot. Caustic hot. Make sure you’ve got something to wash it down with.”

Jazz chuckled and said, “Noted. Ratchet, which one’s yours?”

Grunting, Ratchet shook his helm. “Nothing on the table. I brought acid neutralizers and fuel stabilizers for later. Someone will inevitably need it after ingesting some of this stuff.”

***

“I am surprised that Smokescreen managed to contact you for this party,” Prowl said, taking a seat next to Sideswipe, balancing his plate as he sat. “I have previously tried to contact you – either one of you – on multiple occasions.”

“We’re around, here and there. We just happened to be in-system this deca-cycle,” Sideswipe said, his optics fixed on the yellow car on the track that was keeping pace with the blue and white racer. Suddenly he jumped to his pedes with a whoop as the yellow car pulled ahead just before the finish line. “Yeah! You showed him, Sunny!” he yelled.

The two mechs waited while Sunstreaker strutted through the other cheering mechs in the crowd to sit near them. “I’ve been waiting to do that for vorns,” Sunstreaker said, knocking back the cube of energon that Sideswipe handed him and pointedly ignoring Mirage’s scowl on the other side of the concourse.

Prowl set his wings at a deferent angle. “I have had something that I wanted to tell you – both of you – but I have not had a chance to do so in person.” Waiting until he had the attention of both twins, he continued. “During my trial, you provided testimony that helped exonerate me. I want to express my appreciation for that, so… Thank you both.” He bowed his helm.

When Prowl looked back up, Sideswipe was looking away, his field tinged with discomfort, while Sunstreaker rolled his empty cube between his digits. Finally, Sideswipe met Prowl’s gaze. “Look,” the red mech said. “We were called to testify, right? So we had to go.”

“So it wasn’t exactly our choice unless we wanted to land ourselves in prison,” Sunstreaker muttered.

Sideswipe nodded and continued on as though Sunstreaker hadn’t interrupted him. “And we had to tell the truth… Which was that… Well, you were an aft. You really were, during the war. Then, after the war, you became a grade-A, first-class, premium aft. After the war, after everything should have been getting better for everyone, you seemed bent on making every mech hate you.”

“Even the mechs who otherwise might’ve liked you,” added Sunstreaker under his breath.

“But… You did everything for a reason. Every slag-headed thing you did to someone and every sparkless order you gave had a purpose behind it, and you were doing what you thought – no, what your tac-net calculated – would be the best thing to do… for Cybertron.” Sideswipe glared up at Prowl. “We couldn’t ignore that. So, yeah, we testified that you were just trying to do what was right. But! It doesn’t mean we think you’re a good mech, now.”

Sunstreaker had not yet looked in Prowl’s direction, opting to stare at the track where Smokescreen was cajoling Bluestreak into a race. “We just told the truth because we had to. We didn’t do it because we like you.”

“Saying that the ends justify the means doesn’t excuse the things you did to the mechs who were the means.” Sideswipe’s field flared with resentment. “Sometimes we wonder if things might’ve been better if Optimus had beaten your spark outta you when he had the chance,” Sideswipe said, standing up.

Standing alongside his twin, Sunstreaker finally looked at Prowl. “We’re here for Jazz. We’re happy for him, and we’re glad that he found someone to make him happy,” he said quietly. 

“We just hope you treat him better than everyone else you’ve had in your life.” Sideswipe’s optics flicked down to the blue and red ornament set as an inlay in Prowl’s chest armor. “I think it’s time we got going, Sunny.”

Sunstreaker nodded silently, and they walked over to where Jazz was standing with Optimus and Jetfire.

Prowl exvented softly, watching as they spoke to Jazz. He had expected that response, although Prowl wasn’t sure that he had been prepared for the level of animosity in it. Still, he had finally given them his thanks. If they never wanted to see him again, that was their choice. Prowl learned vorns ago that brooding over the past got you nothing. 

Prowl watched as Sideswipe gave Jazz a hug and a pat on the back, and Jazz gripped Sunstreaker’s forearm as the twins bid their farewell. Jazz looked around and saw Prowl watching him, and strolled over to sit next to him.

“It was good to meet them,” Jazz said cheerily. “They seem like nice mechs. I can’t remember much about them, though.”

Prowl was peering suspiciously at a brown blob on his plate, but looked up at Jazz as he spoke. “Yes. They are both good mechs. They were invaluable during the war, and instrumental in securing a lasting peace afterwards.” He kept his field close and neutral. No need to trouble Jazz with issues from the past, he thought.

Jazz was watching the race between Smokescreen and Bluestreak. “Hah, lookit Blue go! With the way that Smokey was trying to get Blue to race, I don’t think he was expecting anything quite this close.”

“Likely not,” Prowl said, picking up the brown lump. “Bluestreak is often underestimated.” He popped the lump into his mouth and began chewing. 

Biting. Hot. BURNING HOT. Prowl made a strangled noise, which caused Jazz to glance back at him in concern. “Prowler? Love? Are you alright?”

Mouth open and optics wide, Prowl fanned a hand around his neck. “Haaaaaaaa...” He gagged, trying to clear his vocalizer and failing. He switched to comms, his tone agitated. ::HOT! THIS WAS HOT! I need... I need...:: Prowl didn’t know what he needed, except something to make the burning stop. 

“Was it brown and lumpy?” Jazz asked, grabbing Prowl’s plate from his hand. When Prowl nodded, Jazz turned to yell at the mechs standing near the treat table. “Wheeljack! Prowl ate one of your hydroxide nibbles. Bring him some coolant, quick!”

***

“All right! Last race of the evening before we wrap this party up. Let’s see every grounder out there on the track! Everyone! That means you, too, Ratchet!” Blaster’s amplified voice echoed around the stands.

“Come on, Ratchet, just one lap,” Orion Pax said, hauling his old friend up by an arm.

“If I’m on the track, who’s supposed to help if someone gets hurt?” Ratchet grumped.

“Go on, Ratchet, have some fun,” Perceptor said from his seat next to Jetfire. “If anyone blows a tire I’m sure the two of us can handle it.”

With some good-natured teasing, the nine grounders left at the party arranged themselves at the start line and transformed into their alt modes. 

Jazz eased himself into the line-up next to Prowl. ::Did you have a good time tonight, Prowler?::

Prowl revved his engine, waiting for the start light to activate. ::Yes. This is a good group of friends.::

::The best!:: Jazz gunned his own engine. ::Now... Let’s beat the tires off of them.::

:Agreed.::

The light turned green, and nine mechs took off with a roar of engines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally my idea for an epilogue, but there were too many mechs that I wanted to get invites to the party that Jazz hadn't "re-met" yet. So I decided to do it as a standalone (ish) story.
> 
> And yes, you don't have to squint, that's Bluestreak/Hound happening there. Also, the twins really do have a good reason for being angry at Prowl, but Jazz was a good friend. Life is usually complicated like that.


End file.
